


Distractions and Tiny Terrors

by SeekingIdlewild



Series: Tiny Colonel Chronicles [3]
Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Pre-Slash, Shrinking, smol!Young
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekingIdlewild/pseuds/SeekingIdlewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young is still small and not really enjoying it, but at least Rush is being unusually nice to him. That counts for a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distractions and Tiny Terrors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fragged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fragged/gifts).



Young was bored. He had been sitting on the padded arm of the captain's chair for hours now while Rush worked, and there had been little conversation between them. On the other side of the bridge, Brody and Volker were talking and working together as usual, just as if Volker wasn't three and a half inches tall and standing on top of his console instead of in front of it. Young couldn't actually hear what Volker was saying from this distance, but he could glean enough from Brody's replies that it was pretty much business as usual between them. Volker wasn't useless and bored. He still had something to contribute. But Young? Young was nothing but a helpless dependent on Rush.

Maybe he should have asked Scott to take charge of him today. But Scott was just as busy as Rush now that Young was unable to do his duties, and besides, that would have been… awkward. Scott was a good man and a good soldier, but there were certain things he didn't know how to handle, and seeing his commanding officer in miniature was apparently one of them. Their conversation in the infirmary last night had been brief and embarrassing, and Young would just as soon not repeat it. Greer was a good alternative, but Rush was right - Greer spent most of his spare time with Lisa, as well he should. And as for the rest of the soldiers under his command, Young couldn't think of any he'd trust to take care of him without making him feel demeaned in some way. His men didn't need to witness his vulnerability up close. This whole situation was bad enough without that added humiliation.

It was different with Rush. Any respect he felt for Young was hard-won, and therefore less likely to waver simply because Young had recently met with a bizarre accident. He was much too rational for that. So far he had been kind, but not patronizing, and Young appreciated that. 

Still, Young was bored.

Heaving a sigh, he stretched out on his back and pulled his microfiber cloth over himself like a blanket. For a while he just lay there, watching Rush's profile. Rush was turned away from him, his attention focused on the monitors on the other side of the chair. Every once in a while he would stop to check on Young - just a brief glance - before returning to his work. He was still pretty. His eyes were still arresting, his hair still looked soft and touchable, and his mouth was still inviting. It was all very distracting, and unfortunately Young didn't have anything else with which to occupy his mind at the moment - other than his own condition, of course, which he was trying not to dwell on.

Why had it taken him this long to notice that Rush was attractive? If being rescued by Rush was the catalyst for this revelation, shouldn't it have come earlier, on one of several previous occasions when Rush had saved his ass? Granted, this was the first time he'd lain naked and panting in the palm of Rush's hand after being rescued. That might account for some of the confusing emotions that he'd been feeling since yesterday.  

He sighed again, and this time it drew Rush's attention. Rush considered his recumbent form and his brows rose in an unspoken question.

"I think I might take a nap," Young told him, since he didn't particularly want to explain what he'd actually just been thinking. Besides, a nap sounded like a good idea. He was always sleep-deprived, and he had nothing better to do with his time.

"Ah," was Rush's only response, but his eyes lingered on Young for several seconds before he turned away.

Young closed his eyes and tried to relax. He focused on the steady, low thrum of the engines and tried to pretend that he was in his bed, normal-sized and unburdened by inappropriate lust for a brilliant, complicated, and unfairly beautiful scientist. The ambient noises of the bridge, the occasional murmurs from Brody, and the click-clack of Rush's fingers on his console keys eventually lulled him into a doze, from which he eventually sank into a deeper sleep.

 

* * *

_ He was slipping. His hands were clammy and he was losing his grip. His heart pounded in his ears like thunder, nearly drowning out the sound of his panting breaths. A dark nothingness yawned below him, waiting to swallow him up. He couldn't let go, couldn't die like this, but he didn't think he had a choice. His muscles were severely overtaxed, and they couldn't take much more. _

_ He was scared. He was so, so fucking scared. If he could he would be shouting right now, screaming his head off, but he could barely even breathe. It didn't matter anyway. No one was coming. No one could help him. _

_ He slipped a little further down the wire and let out a weak, despairing moan. He couldn't hold on any longer. He couldn't. He  _ couldn't.

_ He let go, and the darkness rose up to engulf him. _

 

* * *

"Young!"

Young jerked awake with a small cry, gasping for air. There was a light pressure on his chest, and when he looked down he saw a huge index finger gently resting there, grounding him. In his residual panic he threw his arms around it and clung for dear life, as if that would prevent the fatal drop that he had just dreamed so vividly. 

"Young," came that voice again. The timbre and accent were familiar, but the tone was something new. Young had never heard Rush speak with such gentleness before. 

Young drew in a deep breath and tried to force himself to let it out slowly. His skin was damp with cold sweat, and he was trembling all over. "Fuck," he muttered, blinking up into Rush's looming face. " _ Jesus _ fuck ."

"That bad, was it?" Rush asked.

Young groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. He could still feel the sensation of air whooshing past as he fell to his death. "Yeah. Felt real."

"I suppose it's not surprising you'd have nightmares."

Maybe not. Young had certainly dreamed lucidly before - usually dreams about violence, full of echoing gunshots, explosions, and the overwhelming scent of death. Those dreams were no better than this one, but there was a kind of resignation associated with them. There was a part of him that always knew how those dreams would play out, because they were always the same. They were the faithful reenactments of a tragedy he couldn't prevent - one that he had survived, and 37 others had not. He'd always seen those dreams as a kind of penance, but what did that make this one? If helplessness was the unifying feature in all of his nightmares - and it was, unquestionably - why had this dream rattled him so badly compared to the others?

Was it because, for once, he'd actually  _ wanted _ to survive?

"Young?" Rush murmured again. He wiggled his index finger pointedly.

Young blinked and looked down at the finger he was still clinging to. "Oh, I guess you want this back," He said sheepishly, letting go.

Rush's concerned look was transformed by a smile which curled his lips and set his eyes glittering.  _ Goddamnit _ , he was attractive.  "Well, yes," he agreed, "I might need it eventually." But when he withdrew his finger, he offered his whole hand in its place, held open and flat like a platform beside the arm of the captain's chair. "For now, though, I think we should break for lunch, don't you?"

Young sat up. "I thought you didn't believe in lunch," he said, smoothing down his messy hair and eyeing Rush's hand with feigned distrust. In truth, he welcomed the distractions of food and a change of scenery, and he wouldn't mind spending some time with Rush while the latter wasn't working. Rush was revealing a side of himself that Young had never seen before. The kindness, the protectiveness, the soft smiles and careful, gentle touches were all so new. It probably didn't mean anything. He'd probably go back to treating Young with indifference once Young had regained his normal size. But for the present, Young could admit to himself that it was nice to be cared for. Especially by Rush.

"Believe in it?" Rush repeated in amusement as he used his other index finger to gently prod Young in the back. "It's not a tenant of faith."

"Speak for yourself," Young said, ineffectually swatting away Rush's finger as he climbed to his feet. "All right, I'm moving, I'm moving." He picked up the microfiber cloth and draped it over his shoulders. Then he walked to the edge of the chair arm and hopped down into Rush's open hand. He was getting used to riding around in people's hands, Rush's in particular. It was just enough like flying that he secretly relished it, so he happily settled himself on Rush's palm and prepared to soar off toward the mess hall. 

The nightmare was already fading in his memory. He felt safe.


End file.
